Exploring Yosemite National Park.

I bought hiking boots for our trip to Yosemite. Of course I said they were “also for snow! They’re snow boots!” but they weren’t. They were obviously hiking boots. They tied up around my ankles and had big rubber soles on the bottoms, and as soon as Kyle saw me trying to shove them into the suitcase he said, “You’re bringing hiking boots? To California?” (He said it this way because I am not what one would call a ‘hiker’. Kyle has seen me “hike” before – my version of hiking looks a lot like walking.)

“Yes!” I said proudly. “For Yosemite.”

“Are those going to be comfortable?” He asked a little concerned. “You know we’re going to be walking a lot.” Which meant, “I’m not going to tip-toe around Yosemite with you when your feet hurt because you wore those dumb shoes.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”

But what I meant was, “I did not buy these shoes because they were ‘comfortable’, I bought these shoes because they were cute – and HOW CUTE would I look wearing them in Yosemite?? When else am I going to have the opportunity to wear HIKING SHOES? YOU KNOW I DON’T HIKE.”

I don’t know why I bought those shoes. I mean, I know why, but… ugh. Anyway, now I have hiking boots that I never wear.

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The Wedding Registry.

Registering for a wedding is weird.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s wonderful. But also weird. It feels a bit like making out a Christmas list when you’re a kid. You can’t help but think, “We’re really asking someone to buy us an automatic vegetable peeler? Really…?” Also, “Do we need an automatic vegetable peeler…?”

Well of course we do. How else are we going to make zucchini pasta?

We don’t usually eat zucchini pasta – actually, I don’t think we’ve ever eaten zucchini pasta (because we’ve never had a vegetable peeler)- but the married version of us seems to lead a much more glamorous and put-together lifestyle. One that involves bowls and plates that match, and pots and pans that have lids that fit. And healthy pasta made from vegetables.

“Where are we going to put all of this stuff?” Kyle asked. That’s the thing about registering for a wedding when you’re living in an apartment – there’s barely enough room for the stuff you have now, where are you supposed to put a KitchenAid mixer and an extra set of “nice” dishes “for company”?

“I don’t know.” I said. “We’ll figure it out. Eventually we’re going to have a house.”

Eventually. “Eventually” in like, three years. Probably. Hopefully. Maybe. Fingers crossed.

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How To Wear White Denim.

I live in fear of wearing white jeans. Not because anything has ever happened to me while wearing them, but because every time I’ve tried them on I spend at least ten to fifteen minutes in a dressing room trying to convince myself that they aren’t “that bad”.

They aren’t “that see-through” or “that tight” and they don’t make my thighs look “that big”.

I don’t like to spend money on things that aren’t “that bad”. Especially not something that could give me mom-butt.

So I’ve never bought white jeans. I’ve wanted to. You can’t walk past a J. Crew window in the months of May, June and July without seeing a mannequin wearing some sort of white denim. And it looks so chic.“It’s a summer staple!” — says every fashion blog, magazine, and “Summer Outfits!” Pinterest board. Also that rule about how “you can’t wear white after Labor Day”.

I’ve tried. I mean, I’ve tried. I’ve tried them on over and over again and tried to convince myself that – 1) they didn’t make me look fat, 2) you couldn’t see my underwear through them, and 3) I didn’t look like someone who works in an ice cream shop…. but that’s a lot to ask of a pair of jeans. Maybe not a pair of dark jeans, or normal-colored jeans- but white jeans? Eek. Good luck.

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On Patience.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it does not argue about kitchen cabinet organization, or how to load the dishwasher “correctly”. It is not proud, it does not grumble about cleaning hair out of the shower drain or throwing out a full carton of expired Almond milk because someone declared that they were going to start making “smoothies for breakfast” and then forgot about it. 

Love is patient. It’s about being patient. The Bible doesn’t really dig into that, it just assumes that you will know how to be patient with someone you love, and you won’t get all pissy just because they forgot to clean the lint trap out of the dryer. 

The lint trap is a hot button issue in our house. Really, the dryer in general is pretty controversial. I won’t get into the politics of “when you should clean out the lint trap” (EVERY. TIME.) or “how many towels you should cram in there before you’re going to break the dryer”, because I know that not everyone agrees with me, and because I’VE never broken a dryer, so I wouldn’t know the answer to that. 

Someone would tell you that it’s okay to stuff twenty towels in there because “they have to get clean”and because “I don’t want to do six loads of towels”.

But, again, we’re not going to get into that. 

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Confessions of A Shopaholic.

“So after we get married, whose bank are we going to use?”

Whose bank are we going to use? Not only do Kyle and I have two separate checking accounts, we have two separate banks. For now. Word on the street is that “married people” have this saying- “It’s not MY money, it’s OUR money.”

Right. But, technically, it is still my money, right?

“Uh…” To say that I hadn’t thought about it would be a lie. I’d thought about it. Of course I’d thought about it. “Mine…” I suggested, “I guess?”

Not like it matters. Eventually he’s going to see how much money I spend on make-up and hair products. Where the bank statement comes from doesn’t really matter.

“But here’s the thing,” I said – because I have nothing to hide – “Maybe we should still have separate accounts. Like, we can have a joint account – you know, for bills and groceries, but then we’ll each have our own SEPARATE account too… for, other things. You know, personal things.”

“Personal” things. I sound like a fifteen year old girl who’s embarrassed that she has to buy tampons. This man is going to be my husband. What could I possibly have to hide from him?

Besides the fact that if he saw a $130 charge to Sephora pop up on our “shared bank statement”, he’d probably have some questions. Like “Why did you spend $130 at Sephora? Isn’t that a make-up store?” And when I say “I needed some moisturizer”, he’s going to ask me why I need moisturizer that costs $130 and “can’t you find something cheaper?” and when I say “but this is the Kate Somerville Wrinkle Warrior moisturizer with retinol”, he’ll ask “So? Don’t they sell moisturizer at Walmart?” and then he’s going to try to make me buy the moisturizer at Walmart.

You guys. I can’t start buying my moisturizer at Walmart. It may have worked for me when I was a teenager, but I’m thirty now. I need the hard stuff.

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One Day in San Francisco.

Chick flicks and “fun beach reads” will lead you to believe that couples who go away on vacation together always have a super romantic time. A “romantic getaway” they call it.

I don’t know about you, but when Kyle and I go on vacation – we usually just end up bickering about the traffic, or the crowds, or “what time is check-out?” since SOMEONE always seems to forget that check-out is at 11 – even though “check-out is ALWAYS at 11”, but we probably won’t be ready by then because SOMEONE is still in the bathroom.

Our first trip to San Francisco was…. kind of romantic? I guess? It was romantic when Kyle paid some guy to switch seats on the flight home so that he could sit next to me. In a middle seat. While I used his shoulder as a pillow and spent the entire four hours blowing my nose (because OF COURSE I’d woken up with a sinus infection that morning and proceeded to go through airport security with a box of tissues.) Not only did he opt for a crappy middle seat by his sniffly, disgusting fiancé – he went out of his way to hold my hand and let me rest my head on his shoulder, even though I had snot dripping out of my face. If that isn’t true love, I don’t know what is.

Our time in San Francisco was short. We did MOST of the touristy stuff – like take pictures at The Golden Gate Bridge, and Pier 39, and Lombard Street, and we saw the cable cars and the “Painted Ladies” houses and hung out at “that one park across from the Painted Ladies – you know, the one they showed in Full House?” (Alamo Square).

We rented a car for the day. I had reserved something like a Ford Focus (or whatever the equivalent to “economy” was), but when the guy asked us “what kind of car wanted”, he somehow talked us into upgrading. Which wasn’t very hard once Kyle responded with “something fun” to the “what do we want” question, and the guy said, “How about this Chevy Camaro convertible?” and Kyle said “Sold!”


(I act like I’m blaming this all on my fiancé. In reality, I heard “convertible” and said “Ooh!!” and then Kyle said “Sold!” What can I say, we’re a couple of yuppies.)

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